Page 83 of Fractured Future
“That’s it. Scream!”
One arm still locked around his neck, she smashes her fist into his face. Blood squirts from Lee’s shattered nose, covering the concrete below. Still, she doesn’t relent or show any mercy.
Another blow knocks him for six. He wavers against her body, clearly running out of steam. His fatal mistake was allowing himself to be cornered in the first place. Now he’s done for.
“Do you yield, bitch?” Raye’s spittle flies from her mouth onto his inflamed cheek.
Nothing.
Another direct hit to the face opens up a weeping cut above his eyebrow. My admiration increases when I notice she’s dislodged a piercing, causing the hoop to tear free and fall to the floor.
“Argh!” Lee’s wails mimic a terrified animal.
The sound only seems to fuel Raye’s savagery as she lands punch after punch, trapping him in place with her arm while her fist goes to town.
“Yield! Now!”
Her racerback tank top reveals colourful floral tattoos up her arms and shoulders, both sweaty and tensed. She squeezes his throat to what must be excruciating proportions, her muscles rippling.
“P-P-Please,” Lee wheezes faintly. “I yield.”
His hand flaps in the air, finally begging for relief. One of the smoking men, clearly acting as a referee by presiding over the match, drops his cigarette to intervene.
“Time!” he calls out. “We have a winner.”
Raye releases her arm, yelling for applause. The gaggle of onlookers go wild, screaming their praise and waving cans of beer in the air. I can’t help but smile a little.
His knees giving out, Lee collapses on the concrete in a limp puddle. Two figures from the crowd come forward to drag his ass away while Raye saunters off to lavish in her victory.
She has to know where Blaine is lurking. Last I saw her, Raye was acting as his closest support. I’m about to follow her when the referee calls everyone to attention.
“Alright, alright! You know who’s up next, but we don’t have an opponent yet.”
An odd hush falls over the warehouse. It’s thick with palpable tension, silencing the applause and excited yells in an instant.
“Now you’re in for a show,” Spyder mumbles.
“How so?”
“Just wait and see.”
Sweeping his gaze around the circle, the referee smiles broadly. “Who dares to challenge the Phantom himself?”
The… Phantom?
Circle parting to allow space, someone approaches the makeshift fighting ring. My whole body goes rigid, swarming with electric recognition.
I absently notice his half-shaved, tousled raven hair, visible facial scar and determined onyx eyes first. But honestly, it’s his bare chest that grabs my attention and refuses to surrender it.
My throat dries.
Lungs seize.
Brain sputters in shock.
For someone who looks to be covered in more scars than skin, Blaine Madden sure doesn’t seem to have a problem parading around in little more than denim and visible tattoos.
His defined chest is a harrowing sight to behold, littered with silvery marks. Long. Short. Mottled burns. Faded stripes. His pectorals, smattered with dark hair, boast small, circular marks.
